25.2.13

Trip


Shifting and sorting through the bodies and packages of meat at the grocery store, my eyes dry out in the stale, sterile air. I blink to see, my eyes watering and I hope that the people, floating and swirling, don't think I am crying here.

I've lost him in the aisles, I am aimless in the stream. Bursting and calling out to me, each bright box, each advertisement screams, coupons shriek. The shoppers nip at each other's heels: we only came here to get out.

I see into the life of things: each box folded, each piece parted, each story assembled on the line. Buying you is enfolding you into me, you grow and adapt to my skin like scar tissue. The hum, buzz of the shattering carts, the breathing shoppers. All we want to do is go home.

I locate him by recognizing the items in our cart. Then debit or credit, pack and push. We pull ourselves home along the line, we paddle along the horizon to bring home our goods, our sustenance. We have brought you things; regard the things we bought you to see your smile. We love you. Have a juicebox and string cheese. We love you.

Let us settle into the mold of the couch and dream of our next trip and what will we get next time. Such colours, stories, and happiness. I am comfort, I am well. I am on a perfect stream of warm, tingling peace. We meditate at each commercial break.


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